


A Woman's Game

by TheWolvenStorm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Fratricide, But We are Not Men, Canon Divergent after Battle of Bastards, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Elephants, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Greenseers, Growth, Like Emotional and Personal, Mammoths, Margaery Tyrell is Alive, Mean Girls Bullshit, Only Women Narrators, Queen Vs. Queen Vs. Queen Vs. Queen Vs. Queen, Shireen Baratheon is alive, Warging, Women of Westeros, all men must die, direwolves, medieval politics, plot heavy, s8? what s8?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25724686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWolvenStorm/pseuds/TheWolvenStorm
Summary: Five Queens rule Westeros. Cersei Lannister holds King's Landing in an Iron Grip, sealing its borders against the threats that seem to enclose the Capital. In the Reach, Margaery Tyrell prepares for the coming Winter, hoping the this final harvest will last the coming Winter. From Dragonstone, Daenerys Targaryen sweeps across the Crownlands, conquering and claiming territory on Dragonback. In the vast expanse of land, from the Trident to the Gift, Sansa Stark plots the downfall of those who have wronged her family. And at the Great Wall of Westeros,  Shireen Baratheon faces Death itself, with nothing but a ragtag army of Bastards, Beggars, and Broken things.But now at the Eve of Winter, the Queens of Westeros gather at Harrenhal, to decide the future of the Seven Kingdoms, and if they can unite to save their people from destruction.All Men Must Die. But We are Not Men
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 150
Kudos: 79





	A Woman's Game

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the Song "A Woman's Game" By Karliene. It's a Game of Thrones Fan Song, Karliene has done a whole bunch but this one is just so furious and feral and I love it so much. It's generally a tribute song for Cersei, but the rage in it is so palpable that it really could apply to any one of these Queens. Any of the women of Westeros.
> 
> Thank you to JustWandering-NeverLost, and Ashelyfanfic, and JalenMara, and FrostbitePanda for being the most motivating people ever and for reading over my fic and listening to me word vomit. With a super-special thank you to JW for making most of these lovely moodboards. You can tell the ones she did because they are beautiful. (Dany, Marge, Cersei, Shireen, Sansa, plus the main one).

* * *

  
** DAENERYS **   
  


She had never seen so much green.

Not in Xaro’s colorful gardens, nor in the olive fields she’d planted in the outskirts of Mereen. Nor in the endless plains of the Dothraki sea. But here, even on the cusp of Winter, Westeros is Green.

The Lush Valley of the Trident stretches out before her. Long wild grasses dotted with bursts of color. The last budding blooms before the coming cold. Sparse stone work and settlements littering the river banks. Their people and their cattle hidden away from the long column of her army as it winds its way along the well trodden road.

Or perhaps they are just hiding from her.

Tyrion had advised against flying. That it would be seen as ‘too aggressive’ for a peace summit. That bringing Dragons back to Harrenhal would only dredge up the castle’s history, and the first Targaryen conquest of Westeros. That it could be seen as ‘threatening’ or ‘war mongering’. That it would make her seem unwilling to participate in compromise.

The whirlwind of Drogon’s wings whips her hair in a storm of silver strands. The ends lashing her skin and tangling her bells and braids. His dark scales reflecting the sun’s autumn heat back up at her face. The prolonged exposure reddening her cheeks, leaving them feeling ruddy and uneven.

Perhaps there was some wisdom in Tyrion’s advice after all.

Drogon growls beneath her, the low rumble travelling along his neck with a rush of warmth that only fire made flesh can conjure. Orange glowing in the spaces between his scales before a small burst of flame erupts from his mouth. A call to his brothers, of boredom and dominance.

A faint smile crosses her lips at the sight of her sons engaged in their play. Flying free. No longer trapped underneath the great Pyramid of Meereen. Their chains broken and their flames bright.

She should have never locked them away in the first place.

Far below, she hears a scream. A terrified wailing cry. A small hamlet. A handful of wooden structures, with a large pasture full of sheep. Their awful shrieks carrying over the rhythmic beat of the Unsullied's march.

And with a flash of green and a burst of speed, Rhaegal dives for the flock. Scattering the herd as he swoops and catches a fat ewe in his claws. And before she has time to exhale, the helpless creature is tossed, seared, and swallowed in a quick powerful snap.

She can already hear Tyrion in her head. Scolding. Cloying. Arguing.

It's best not to give him the chance.

With a firm grip on Drogon's spines, she urges him toward the ground. He obeys, descending in a long loop, the livestock below running away as the ground rushes up to her. Drogon's large body landing heavily on the tall grass.

Sliding off, she lands in springy ground. The soil dark and rich. She scoops up a handful and lets the wet earth crumble between her fingers. Fertile ground, ready to sustain life. Ground that has already seen too much war and strife. Earth ready to burst anew.

She scans the horizon searching for the Shepherd responsible for the herd. Perhaps they are hiding in the tall grass, fearing for their life from the dragon stretching lazily behind her. Steam rising from his nostrils in the misty air.

A small contingent of her Bloodriders find her after a moment with Jorah leading along her Silver mare. This one is young and bold, so unlike the gentle mount Drogo had gifted her on their wedding day. 

"Are we stopping, Khaleesi?” Jorah asks.

"I must visit the village and pay for the sheep," she replies, setting her foot into the stirrup and hauling herself up. The bells in her hair jingling as she comes to rest in the saddle. 

A few of her riders protest, telling her what she knows, that these people will soon be conquered. That the sheep are hers by right of might. That a Khal takes what they want. She silences them with a wave of her hand. 

"These people are under our protection," she announces, gathering up the reins. "We must let them know they will be safe, so that soon even more sheep will fill these lands." And with that she sets off, the steed flying over wet grass, snorting at being given free reign to run instead of being led along the line.

Tyrion meets her on the road. Missandei follows closely behind him as they exit the safe haven of the carriage. Muddying their boots on the well trodden dirt leading to the small hamlet.

"I warned you that bringing the Dragons was a mistake." Tyrion clucks his tongue. As if he was scolding an naughty child instead of serving as her Hand. 

"Not another word," she snaps, dismounting in the space that hardly counts as a village square. Not much more than a few huts of rotting wood, overgrown garden plots of sickly green vegetation, and mud. Lots and lots of mud.

But the mud tells a story. If it weren't for the mud, it would be easy to write this place off as abandoned. Another causality in the endless war that has crossed Westeros in the past decade. But there are footprints in the mud, fresh ones. Small ones. Like the ones made by fleeing children at the sight of approaching army.

'Or,' she thinks as Viserion squawks above her, diving down for his own meal of mutton. 'A dragon’s roar.'

"Your Grace..." Tyrion starts as she marches toward the main house.

"Khaleesi. Let me," Jorah interjects, stepping ahead of her, his hand on his hilt. "We don't know whose inside."

"I have the frightening suspicion it might be farmers." A mocking smile dances across her lips as she moves past him and follows the muddy footprints to the door. It opens at her knock, revealing an anxious young man hiding a small girl behind his leg.

"M'lady," he murmurs, bowing his head.

"This is her Grace, Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. The Breaker of Chains, and the Mother of Dragons," Jorah barks from over her shoulder, frightening the young man, and the even younger girl.

"Of course..." the boy swallows and stutters as he surveys the armed and armored Unsullied outside his home, and bows even lower, pulling the smaller child down with him. "How-how may we s-serve, Your Grace?"

"You can sell me two dozen sheep," she replies jovially, a bright smile on her face as she motions Tyrion forward. Her Hand grumbles as she extends her own for coin. He continues to grumble as he fishes out his purse and tosses it to Jorah.

Her old knight digs out some silver stags, but pauses as she coughs loudly. With a sigh he finds a few golden dragons instead, and hands them to the boy.

The shepherd's eyes grow wide at the coins in his hands. "Th-Thank you, M'lady, I mean- Your Grace. This is most generous. Do you need us to slaughter them for you? Prepare them for your men?"

In the distance, a thunderous roar splits the sky and the rotten timbers of the house rumble slightly as her dragons hunt their harmless prey.

"There's no need."

Missandei works diligently to untangle the knotted mass of her braids as the men rest on the side of the road. Tyrion pacing in front of them, reviewing their strategy for their arrival at Harrenhal.

"The Tyrell's will have arrived first, no doubt," he states, repeating the same conclusion he's come to a half dozen times already. "Sansa and Margarery were long time friends, and in this matter, their interests align. Sansa needs grain and food stuffs, and Margaery needs security. And they both hate Cersei fiercely."

"We've been over this Tyrion."

"We need to come up with a strategy to ally with them against Cersei."

"I know,” she answers coldly. They've discussed this more times than she can count. Joining with the Queen of the Reach and the Queen of North was their best strategy to win the War for Westeros. Otherwise the perpetual stalemate will drive the country to ruin.

But the traditional avenues of alliances have failed them. The Queens of Westeros are all unmarried and childless. Varys claims there are no viable marriage prospects remaining in any of the great houses.

So the remaining path open to them is the leverage of mutually assured destruction during the coming winter. The Westerosi Maester confirmed what the Sages of the Dosh Khaleen had prophesied. This winter will be long and difficult. If they don't kill each other in the coming wars, starvation will.

If only the suffering of others could force men to action.

'But we are not men,' she reminds herself. And perhaps in that fact there is still hope yet.

* * *

** **

** SANSA **

Tycho Nestoris steeples his fingers, and taps them against his thin lips. His mouth opening and closing several times as if he is about to begin to say something, before changing his mind. Next to him, Petyr sits, calm and collected as ever. His hands neatly folded at his waist. Projecting his stoicism onto her, silently reminding her to straighten her back, and keep her face cold. 

It doesn’t help that Brienne looks nervous, her hand on her sword belt. Her armor clinking slightly with each of her small anxious movements. The knight’s large blue eyes darting between the document on the table, the banker, and her. 

“Over the past thirty years,” Tycho finally starts, “The Iron Bank has invested a great deal of gold in Westeros. Three Million Dragons to the Iron Throne alone." He pauses again, leaning back against his chair. 

She inhales deeply. Three million dragons seems such a vast sum. But in her short time as queen she has learned that coin is liquid. It moves quickly. Only hers for a moment before passing to someone else. And three million dragons is not as much as it seems. 

Nor does it buy as much as it should. 

“We’ve sought restitution of this debt from each and everyone of the monarchs vying for control of this continent. Joffrey, and Tommen. Renley Baratheon. We followed Stannis Baratheon up to the Frozen North of your country, and yet we’ve been unable to recover a single copper from any of them.” Tycho chuckles, disbelieving his own words. She does not join his laughter, though Petyr lifts the corner of his lips in sympathy. “We even sent a representative to your brother. Robb. Though, I am afraid our messenger did not reach him in time.” 

His eyes peirce hers for a long moment, searching as he draws out his words. Seeking weakness, a flinch, an unshed tear. 

‘He will find none’ she vows to herself, allowing her stiff posture to relax just ever so slightly. Allowing her lips to part only enough to let a small smile through. 

“And now, the country is parcelled out between five queens. Each of them unwilling to take on the debt of your Iron Throne. Yet each of them requesting loans to fund their own kingdoms and their own wars.” 

It’s a bluff, she knows. A gamble to entice a higher usury on the loan. LittleFinger’s network of traders and merchants keep them well informed. The Iron Bank would not do business with the Dragon Queen, not after she collapsed the slave trade in Essos. Jon had sent a request on the behalf of the Night’s Watch, but for a paltry sum that couldn’t have been for weapons or arms. Food most likely, though he had not bothered to inform her of the details. Margarey had no need for loans, the everlasting fertility of the Reach meant that soon enough Lords would be emptying their treasuries for a few cartfuls of grain. Which meant there was only one other queen who could be beseeching the Iron Bank for gold. 

“If Cersei Lannister did not bother to pay her loans during her time as Queen Consort, and then as Queen Regent, what makes you think she would pay you back now as Queen Regnant?” she keeps her voice even and icey. 

Tycho raises his eyebrow and offers a conciliatory nod. “You speak the truth, Your Grace. And have arrived at the crux of my dilemma.” He smiles, his thin lips drawing even tighter. “On the one hand, Cersei is unreliable and, according to my sources, unstable. However despite this she does hold King’s Landing; the largest city in Westeros, with the most active harbor and the most productive industry. On the other hand-” he motions to her, holding out his palm conciliatory. “A young, and inexperienced queen, and though she might possess vast expanses of land, that land is under developed and unproductive. Which of these queens would provide the best return on my investment?” 

She blinks and does her best to contain her own smile. Keeping it hidden behind her lips, though she cannot help but lift her chin with pride.

“You are right, Lord Nestoris. For too long, the vast resources of the isolated North have sat idle.” She stands, then Baelish rises as well, following her lead. The same hidden smirking flashing in his eyes. 

From a basket in the corner she pulls a rolled up parchment, and loses the string around its middle to let it loose. “I had this map drawn up especially for your arrival.” 

Petyr takes it from her hand as she sits, spreading it out between her and the banker. Clever fingers withdraw parchment weights from some hidden pocket and place them on the four corners of the map. Tycho Nestoris scans it briefly, perceptive eyes taking in the etchings from the Gift down to God’s Eye lake and Harrenhall. 

“Your lands are vast, Your Grace,” he says casually, folding his hands up beneath his chin. 

“My lands are rich, my lord,” she counters, reaching her arm over the map, planting a finger next to Winterfell. Next to her home. “The Wolfswood is vast and untamed.” Dragging that finger down in a long swoop southwest. “Enough lumber to build ten thousand ships without risk of depletion.” Her hand shifts eastward, along the sketch of a mountain range. “The Vale of Arryn,” she explains. “How much steel lies hidden in the stones? The mines of Casterly Rock are empty, but what treasures lie in the Mountains of the Moon?” She again moves her hand north, following a ragged coastline. “Your fisherman have fished the Narrow Sea for generations, the first victims of pirates and slaughter in the crowded sea lanes. But what of this sea?” she asks, moving her hand to western coastline of Westeros. “Only a handful of our smallfolk dare to sail Sunset Sea, but your Bravossi sailors are much bolder and more skilled than our smallfolk.” 

The Banker raises his eyebrow and motions for her to proceed. 

Smiling warmly, she gestures along the long forking lines of the Trident. “There are currently less than thirty functional mills along the whole length of the Trident. All of which only serve to grind wheat into flour, nothing as advanced as your manufacturing in Braavos.” She goes on, listing the natural resources at her disposal. Furs from the North. Peat from the Swamps of the Neck. The ports at the Bay of Seals, White Harbor, and the Fingers. All of which stand ready to be expanded to accommodate an influx of goods and labor from Braavos. 

“If you ask me for the three million gold the Crown of Westeros owes to the Iron Bank, the truth is I cannot give it,” she offers a conciliatory palm and a small smile. “Not only can my coffers not spare such a sum, but in truth, it is not my debt to pay.” 

The Banker lets out a short snort of laughter at that, but she quickly quiets him with an outstretched hand. “But, in exchange for your continued credit, I offer you the chance to gain it back five-fold.” 

Tycho’s arched eyebrow seems permanently affixed in place as he glances between the map, and Petyr before finally looking up at her. “The funds will need approval from my superiors, but as you can imagine, due to the events in Slaver’s Bay, we have many-” he purses his lips cautiously, “-investors seeking new ventures. I see no reason why we can’t get this started.” 

From a leather bound folder he pulls out too many sheets of parchment. Some of them clearly for his own reference, others passed to Petyr. They discuss sums and installments and usury until the sun burns red and orange in the sunset sky. 

“I will have the best wine brought up from the cellars so we might celebrate our partnership,” Littlefinger announces, standing abruptly as he passes the final papers to her for her seal. 

The wax sits melting in the little cup over the flame as she gingerly twirls the direwolf stamp between her fingers. Her father’s sigil. Her brother’s sigil. Now hers. By every right it should be hers. 

Except. 

“My lord Nestoris.” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” the Banker asks, looking slightly impatient as she delays this final step.

“My bastard-brother, Jon Snow, took out a loan as well, while acting as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he answers. “A paltry sum, usually the Iron bank doesn’t bother with such amounts, and fields them out to smaller organizations, however-” he rocks his head back and forth as if searching for words. 

“I would like for the total sum of his loan to be added.”

Tycho Nestoris looks taken aback and then his lips purse before splitting into a wide grin. “Of course, Your Grace, it will take me only a few moments.” 

Perhaps this will absolve her guilt. Perhaps this will draw him back to her side. Perhaps this will bring their pack back together. 

Their last interaction flashes in her mind. The anger on Jon’s face. The hurt. He and the Wildlings leaving Winterfell after the battle. Leaving her alone again. Their horses carving a bloody trail in the snow as they waded through the dead. 

The banker points out the adjusted totals to her and she offers a small nod of approval, before pouring the melted wax on both copies of the document and stamping her seal into each. With unnerving efficiency, Tycho wraps up the sealed document in a small tube and adds it to his satchel. Petyr returns with a servant trailing behind him, bearing goblets and a flagon. There are toasts to her health, toasts to prosperity, toasts to industry and toasts to the future of the country. 

“I will set out on the ‘morrow,” Tycho announces, setting his goblet aside. “With your help, my long journey in this country has finally come to an end.” 

“I hope that the council finds these terms favorable.” 

“Indeed, Your Grace.” He stands and bows. “Within two moons, I am sure you will find an influx of Bravosi at White Harbor, ready to survey the Iron Hills.” 

“I look forward to greeting them and offering hospitality,” she offers in return, glancing to Petyr who nods in return. 

With yet another bow the Banker turns and leaves with Petyr, nodding to Brienne at the door.

“Sansa,” her knight starts as she fingers through papers. “Are you sure this is wise?” 

“Westeros must grow beyond its petty rivalries,” she recites, a dull tone vibrating her lips as she massages her stiff cheeks. 

“But-” 

“Are you in a place to question me about economic matters? Did your schooling not only include the Blade, but also the finer points of Trade and Commerce?” 

Brienne stiffens, in that way that her Septa used to, judgemental and disappointed. But also unable to compel further action or compliance. In a way that brings an apology to the tip of her tongue, before her jaw locks in defiance. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I will leave you to your thoughts,” Brienne says after a moment, turning on her heel and closing the heavy solar door behind her. Leaving Sansa Stark, Queen of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands alone. 

‘The lone wolf dies…” her father’s voice seems to echo in the recesses of her soul. Is it her father’s voice? Does she remember what her Lord father sounded like? It’s been so long, it's taken a new shape, a new sound. 

It sounds like her brother.

* * *

****

**CERSEI**

"I was told there would be Elephants..."

Her voice carries over murmurs of the crowded courtiers staring wide-eyed at the golden group of mercenaries at the foot of the Iron Throne. Harry Strickland tosses a lopsided grin as he stands upright.

"You certainly didn't expect us to parade them through the Red Keep, Your Grace? The elephants are being offloaded to our forward camp."

He flashes a smile up at her, a cunning, knowing grin. His hand raking through the fine strands of golden hair hanging in front of his face. He reminds her of Jaime, from a time not so long ago. When he was full of that cocky undefeated arrogance that held his head high above others. Before he lost his hand, before that self righteous ogre changed him.

Before their children died.

"How many elephants?"

"Two dozen armed and armored beasts. All trained and capable of handling a Dothraki Horde. If you'd like to see them, I'd be happy to arrange it."

She shifts positions atop the throne, leaning back against the chair, taking on the role of the seductress she's played so many times. Tacking on her brightest smile with the ease of four decades of practice.

"Yes, then we can discuss your tactics... privately."

The Mercenary's cocky grin spreads even wider. "There'd be no greater pleasure."

She feels Jaime behind her. The shift in his stance. The change in his posture. The heavy intake of breath that swells his chest and pushes down whatever venomous word he might want to spit out.

"I don't know that it's wise for her grace to be travelling around Mercenary camps," her twin huffs out instead. "You'd understand that, wouldn't you, my lord?"

They posture like two animals fighting over a scrap of carcass. Mirroring each other, baring their teeth, and circling. Only cats with a different coat. And neither of them lions.

"Enough," she orders in a saccharine sweet voice.

And in the long seconds that follows there is silence. The silence in the crowd is palpable and her eyes trail over the lords and ladies in the hall. It fills her up, strengthens her. There's power in a woman who commands silence. And there is power in a woman who chooses not to be.

"Rest assured, Lord Strickland, that I have the utmost faith in the reputation of the Golden Company." She stands, pushing herself off the Iron Throne and slowly descends the stairs, the sound of her slippers scraping the marble floor. "The Golden Company was founded by knights exiled after the first Blackfyre Rebellions, was it not?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Strickland answers. "Bittersteel himself."

She hums thoughtfully as she paces back and forth in front of the throne. "I find it telling that you are here before me today. At this moment in history," she pauses, looking back out over those gathered. "The Golden Company was exiled for its rebellion, and now they have returned to crush one." Her fist hammers into her open palm. The sound of slapping skin emphasizing her words.

"As Lawful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I hereby lift your long exile from Westeros." The cheers grow violent, zealous, and her words take on a furious cadence. The rage that simmers in her belly filling her voice with sharp syllables and malicious intent. "I welcome back the long lost sons of Westeros, so that your men may honor their forefathers and defend their homeland from invaders, traitors and regicides."

The fervor of the onlookers washes over her as they applaud her praise. But it's not their eyes she feels on her back. Not their eyes trying to peer into her very soul.

He followed her into the world. Barely thirty seconds behind. Grabbing onto her ankle if her mother and the maesters were to be believed. But was she pulling him forward? Or was he dragging her back?

"Cersei," he calls, as she sips her wine and stares out over the work being done in the little courtyard that was once Margaery Tyrells' Rose Garden. The noxious scent had given her migraines and she couldn't stand to see the frittering maidens sighing and strolling through the bushes. So it was burnt to ashes and inlaid with new quarried rock. And the finest artists of the city kneeled and toiled before her. Bringing the vision of her kingdom to life.

"Cersei," Jaime repeats, this time closer.

"I heard you," she answers, bringing the goblet back to her lips.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulder. "We should not be so eager as to welcome the Golden Company back. They're mercenaries."

"And now they are soldiers who are fighting for their homeland and for their freedom."

Jaime shakes his head. "They are sellswords, no matter who started the company." He tries to put some steel in his voice. Use that tone she's heard all her life. The one that wants to give orders, but doesn't have the authority to. "It's unwise for us to rely on them as the main thrust of our forces. Taking this contract will devastate our coffers..."

"Then we'll take the money from someone else." She circles the edge of the map. "Enemies to the North, Enemies to West, Enemies from the South." Her foot prints scuffing some of the still drying paint. "Enemies to the East. We are surrounded, and you would refuse good men at arms to save a few dragons."

"It's the Dragons I'm worried about," he says seriously.

"Qyburn's new Ballistae will take care of them. Make sure Strickland trains his men to use them properly when you march North."

"March where?" he barks angrily.

She looks at her feet, at the small blue smear of God's Eye lake. And the sketch of a castle on its bank.

"To Harrenhal, of course."

Her twin's jaw grows stiff as he parses the command.

Handing the goblet off to a servant, she folds her hands behind her back. The metal decorations at her shoulders pinch her as she rolls them back.

"You will lead the Golden Company and sack Harrenhal. Kill them all. I don't have a need for prisoners. Especially Tyrion." She shoots him a glare. "I'll be giving the same orders to Strickland, so you won't let the murderous little imp slip through your fingers again."

Jaime winces at her words. "Your Grace," he starts, addressing her formally, as if they didn't know everything about each other. As if they weren't woven into every fiber of each other's being. "Cersei, this plan is foolish, by attacking a peaceful summit you will unite them all against you."

"Caution,” she sneers and snorts a small chuckle, retrieving her newly re-filled goblet from a serving girl. "This is why you would never have lived up to father's glory. The world presents you an opportunity and instead of seizing it you wait and dawdle till it's passed you by."

"It's a peace summit..." he pleads.

"It's all our enemies gathered in one place, guarded by only a fraction of their armies. It's a chance for us to remove all who stand in our way."

"And if we lose?" he counters. "Forty thousand troops entrenched at Harrenhal and three dragons is no easy thing to overcome. Even with the numbers of the Golden Company and their elephants.” He throws his hands up in the air, helpless and hapless. As always. “What happens if we lose?"

She takes another sip of her wine. "As you said, they're just mercenaries, and then we won’t have to pay them.” She turns letting the long train of her gown drag over the painting as she strides across the map. "See to your men, my lord. Be sure they are ready for battle."

Jaime looks as if he is about to say something, but she keeps her back to him, and focuses on the map stretched out at her feet. A cyvasse board with living breathing pieces.

'In this game, you win or you die.' It's a lesson she learned long ago. When she was far too young to understand what it meant to play. It's risky, of course, but there is always risk. And for as long as she has played, she hasn't died yet.

There's a chance to clear the board. A chance to wipe out all opposition. A chance to remind everyone that a lion still has claws.

"And mine are long and sharp, my Lord," she sings quietly to herself as she circles the map. Humming the melody as she sips her wine. "As long and sharp as yours."

* * *

****

**MARGAERY**

“By the gods,” her grandmother huffs, landing heavily back onto the cushion bench of the carriage as they hit yet another hole in the road. Cursing, she adjusts herself before hollering out the window at the carriage driver. “Try to avoid the holes in the road, you buffoon."

There's a muffled apology from the carriage driver that cuts off as grandmother closes the thick embroidered curtain of their coach.

"Honestly," the old woman huffs as another bump jostles her around. "My old bones can't take much more of this."

“It’s not his fault the roads have been destroyed,” she answers quietly, pulling the curtain back part way, letting the sun fill her half of the compartment. But its heat barely penetrates the thick sleeves of her dress.

There was a time she would have basked in its glow. Worn gowns that did little and less to protect her modesty. When it would bronze her skin and fill her with a radiant warmth. But that was before. When she was the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms. When she had not been a thrice widowed queen. When she was still a flower that had not yet been plucked.

When she still had her brother.

The tears build up behind her eyes once more, and she turns away from her grandmother. Hiding the quiet sniffles behind a silk handkerchief as she stares out the small window at the rolling expanses of the Northern reaches of the Crownlands.

War had always been so far away from her. It was something that happened 'out there' beyond her reach. Renley and his men had never marched into Battle. She hadn't seen the sack of King's Landing. She hadn't seen the riots in the streets of the city. War was always far away.

No longer.

Outside the small window she can see its devastation. Upturned and broken wagons, littering the sides of the road. The wood rotten and burnt beyond reclamation. Pike shafts stick out above the lush tall grasses. The bones of horses left to die after some battle or another.

How many armies have moved across this land in the past ten years? How many families forced from their homes? How many sons and fathers murdered? How many wives and daughters raped? How much banditry? Desertion? Disease? How much terror had the endless wars wrought?

How much of the blame lies on her?

"Run," Loras screams in the back of her mind. Sounding far away and distant. And then there's nothing but dust.

The chalky taste of rubble fills her mouth and she does her best to swallow it back down.

Grandmother is prattling on, Complaining about how dreadful the lodgings at Harrenhal will be. Reminiscing about her last time in 'that ghastly relic'. How drafty the towers were. How half the estate was in disrepair.

She has less patience for this sort of chatter now. When she was young, she could listen to Grandmother talk for hours, but now her incessant nattering has become tedious. Is it that she has grown past the naivety of youth, or that her grandmother has begun to descend into senility?

The tears build up behind her eyes once more, and she turns away from her grandmother.

"I'm sure Sansa has put all Littlefinger's money to good use," she sighs. "Or at the very least will provide us with decent accommodations."

"Sansa should have thrown her support behind you as soon as we announced you were alive. Ungrateful brat," Grandmother scoffs. "Mark my words, whoever Sansa Stark is now, she isn't the same whimpering little girl I sent off to Littlefinger. We must be vigilant. If she wants to wear her brother's false crown she can. Who gives a damn about the North?"

"And the Vale, and the Riverlands," she corrects, hiding her frustration behind a smile. "Three of the Seven Kingdoms fly under her banner."

"A war torn swamp. A pile of rocks. And a frozen wasteland."

'Entrenched' was how Lord Tarly had described Sansa's position. Impassable. Impenetrable. Unconquerable.

When she repeats Lord Tarly's advice back to her grandmother, she’s greeted with another scoff.

"Lord Tarly believes himself to be a clever man. I've known a great many clever men. I've outlived them all. You know how?" The chiding tone gives way to a small smile. The wrinkles around her grandmother's eyes deepening with her smirk. "I ignored them."

'Don't stop, Whatever you do, don't-' Loras screams before the world flashes green and goes dark.

“And what of the dragons?” she asks, suppressing a cough that still tastes like chalk. 

Grandmother snorts a small laugh, “When I was barely a knee high, my grandfather’s father was doddering old man who was too frail to leave his bedchamber. My mother would demand I spend my days reading to him, waiting for him to die.” She chortles again, rolling her eyes. “He served in the court of King Aegon the Third, when the last dragon died. That doddering feeble man told me that it was no bigger than a fat cat, and mewled just like one.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that Daenerys Targaryen ended the slave trade with a few fat cats,” Margaery huffs, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. 

“No, she did that with her Eunuchs and her Barbarians, both of whom need to eat. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Yes, Grandmother.” 

When she entered Kings Landing, it was atop a chariot wreathed in roses as she tossed bread loaves and gold dragons out into the throngs of cheering crowds. When she returned to High Garden, it was hidden between barrels of wine, smuggled into the palace late at night. Dirt and ash and blood still smeared into her hair..

She enters Harrenhal somewhere in between. In a carriage, surrounded by guards. Their armor flashing and polished as the fortified gates open to the expanse of HarrenHal. History tells her that Old King Harren sought to build the greatest castle ever made. One that could easily garrison fifty thousand men. But there's nothing to prepare her for the sheer scale of the place.

A dozen towers connect to the central drum wall, each with a dozen smaller buildings surrounding it. Armed men and livestock move to and fro between them. The rhythmic ring of smithy's hammers punctuate the din. The chattering of women as they fletch arrows. Chickens run from soot covered children who chase them down and snap their necks for the cauldrons of pots boiling over with soldiers stew. Fishwives dragging barrels of catch from God's Eye lake and packing the fry in salt for rations.

"Gods, the stench," Grandmother wails drawing the curtain once more in a sharp movement as the carriage passes through the bustling space between the inner and outer walls. "I'll have headaches the entire time we're here."

A faint scent drifts to her nose. A ghost of a scent. Burnt meat and dust. Smoke and sulfur. And the smell of lightning and rancid oil. Wildfire and death.

The inner gates open to them, thick wood reinforced with bulky iron bands. Scraping the cobblestone path into the fortress proper as they swing wide. The heavy hoofbeats of her guard halts, and the carriage lurches to a stop. Lord Tarly and Dickon dismount, their voices rumbling as they greet the guards to the palace.

She lets out a long slow, stabilizing breath. The dust from Baelor's sept blowing out from her lungs as she straightens her spine.

"Remember my dear, you are not merely a queen. You are the greatest queen Westeros has had in decades. You are beloved by hundreds of thousands. Do not let these little birds forget that."

Perhaps she was once, in a time not so very long ago. When she was a rose in bloom, who ate the sun and drank the sky and filled the air with sweetness. When she stopped food riots from over taking the city, ended the spread of the bloody flux, and gave freely to the poor and the needy. When she returned peace to a city recovering from war.

Now she is but a thorny bramble, all but dead from the Winter's cold.

Dickon Tarly extends his hand to aid her in stepping down from the carriage. "Your Grace."

"Thank you,” she replies, taking it and leaning against it as she stretches the stiffness of the long journey from her legs.

"My Dear Margaery," Littlefinger calls as she adjusts the hang of her gown. His voice is just as she remembers, oil slick and drawling. As if it’s a snail leaving a silver sticky trail down her ear when he speaks. "Let me be the first to express my joy on hearing you are alive and well. My queen wept for days when the rumors first reached us that you had been killed." He approaches to embrace her, but Dickon takes a heavily armored step in his path.

"You'll need to step away from the Queen, my Lord," he answers, his voice a dumb monotone. His body mass easily twice that of Littlefinger.

"Of course." Littlefinger smiles a curious smile, offering a small tip of his head. "You've trained your boy well, Lord Tarly."

"That'd be something to keep well in mind, Lord Baelish," the older lord gruffs as he helps grandmother down from the carriage.

"The pride of the Reach," she adds, sending a flush of embarrassment up Dickon's ruddy cheeks. He's more of a farm hand than a knight. Sturdy. Quiet. Bulky. Slow Witted. Rough. Everything in a Queensguard that Loras wasn't.

"I'm sure you are all exhausted from your long journey," Littlefinger says. "I welcome you to HarrenHal as my guests, and as guests of Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, the Vale and the Riverlands." He steps aside, letting a servant approach bearing a tray of Bread, Salt and Wine.

"Please allow me, Your Grace," Dickon interjects as she reaches for the offering. The young man eagerly breaking off a chunk of the loaf and inspecting it closely.

She wants to roll her eyes, and tell him he's being ridiculous. But something stops her before she does. The rules have changed. The Lannisters and Freys broke the covenant of Guest Right. The Sept of Baelor was destroyed. Myrcella Lannister murdered by the Sand Snakes. All the once sacred rules are now available for the breaking.

So her face remains rozen, her eyes locked with Lord Baelish's as Dickon swallows and sips the goblet.

"All is well, Your Grace," he murmurs, offering her the untainted edge of the goblet with a clumsy bow. She nods and takes part in the once sacred right, as Littlefinger smiles with an unnamed amusement as he bows and beckons her to the entrance of the great hall.

She follows, linking arms with Grandmother and taking a slow, stiff step forward. The old woman will never admit it out loud, but her step is no longer as sure as it once was.

"Look my girl," her grandmother gestures, pointing as they cross the final gate into the courtyard of Harrenhal. "Just like when I was here in my youth." Pulling her away from the path. Her strength sudden and disproportionate to her size. Guiding her to some bushes with dark green leaves. "Winter Roses." Pointing out some the small buds, little blue petals starting to open from the tips. The faintest hints of petals sprouting out from the tightly wound leaves. "Perhaps we will be here to see them bloom."

"Perhaps," Margarery answers, snapping a stem to prune back the bush, so that she can kiss a hidden blossom. “Winter is coming after all.” 

“Margaery.” 

Her name is spoken clean and cold. Not the cold of distance, or anger. But the cold of suppression. A voice that pushes down its feelings. That disguises its true intent. That hides its drawling northern accent.

“Sansa,” she turns to her old friend and embraces her. “Or perhaps I should say ‘Your Grace.” 

“I should say the same as well, Your Grace.” Sansa laughs, though her pale skin does not blush as easily as it used to as she offers her arm. “Come, let us gather inside, you must be exhausted from your journey.” 

There’s so much to speak of that, for a moment, it's easy to forget they are queens now and not the gossiping girls they once were. That their stroll through the Winter Garden of Harrenhal is the same as the Royal Gardens of Kings Landing. But they are not in Kings Landing anymore. And they are no longer the same girls. 

Like herself, Sansa has changed. Her fiery hair sleeked back to be pulled into an intricate low tail. The muted purples she used to wear, replaced with severe black and sharp edges. Simple and striking. Margarey glances at Littlefinger as they are led through the castle to their tower and rooms. He is robed in much the same way. Though who modeled their garb after whom, is uncertain. 

“I’ve arranged a dinner so that our queens may have a chance to catch up,“ Littlefinger announces as they reach their rooms. “Queen Sansa has explained that lamb is among Her Grace Margarery’s favorite meals.” He smiles a sticky smile and she nods a polite ascent as she meanders around the grand room. “That is, unless you will require more-” 

“Enough,” Grandmother sighs heavily, halting Littlefinger. “Sansa, tell us plain. Why have you summoned us here?” 

“That will be best left for when all the invited queens are-” 

“I didn’t ask you, Baelish.” The Queen of Thorns sneers. “I asked, _Her Grace,_ Sansa Stark.” 

Lord Baelish takes a small step backward, dipping his head in apology. His wiry mustache twitching all the while. But Sansa smiles. A smile that Margaery knows all too well. A warm and polite smile meant to put people at ease. A smile that she practiced every day for years. 

“Lady Tyrell,” Sansa starts. “You provided me aid at a time when I needed it most. And so you deserve to know the truth. But-” she takes a breath, “I am afraid that if I were to tell you without evidence, you would certainly laugh me out of my own court for how mad it sounds.” 

Margaery stops tracing the edge of a silver platter and looks to those gathered curiously. 

“My base-born brother, Jon Snow. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is coming here shortly with evidence of a great threat beyond the Wall.” 

There’s a lie in those words, she knows Sansa too well to not hear it. But the lie isn’t the mysterious threat beyond the wall. No, it's something else. Something unspoken. 

Grandmother opens her mouth to speak, but Lord Tarley cuts her off.

“Probably Wildlings,” he scoffs. “Those barbarians put together another army? Another King beyond the Wall we need to put down?” 

Neither Sansa nor Littlefinger answer directly, only offering polite tilts of the head. 

“You can tell us more at dinner tonight,” Margarey intervenes. Tired of smiling and wanting to sleep in a real bed instead of on the folded out seats of the carriage. And a bath. A warm bath in water scented with rose oil. And solitude. A moment of quiet. A moment without having to pretend anymore. A moment without her grandmother chattering. 

A moment without Loras screaming. 

The gathering disperses, save for Grandmother, and the servants carrying their trunks to their chambers. 

“That girl is hiding something, Margarey.” 

“Aren’t we all, grandmother?” she sighs, stepping out onto the balcony and staring out over the stretch of the horizon. “Aren’t we all?”

* * *

** **

** SHIREEN **

There's a monster in that box.

She stares at the wood and steel chest, criss crossed in thick iron chains and guarded by heavily armored men. It's something she's stared at everyday since they began their long march down south. The monster in the wagon behind hers. The evil coming to destroy them all.

"Don't be afraid, Your Grace," Beric Dondarrion tells her. His smile going lopsided as he leans against the wagon's wheel. "It's not getting out."

At least it's stopped howling and screaming. Now there is only the occasional rustle of chains and the scratch of bone on wood. But it is silent now. Locked in its prison until it's time to be shown to the world.

"Is it still-" she falters and winces as she struggles to find the right word. It's not alive. Gods only know how long it hasn't been alive. "-ambulatory?"

Thoros of Myr takes a swig of his flask and chuckles before rapping his knuckles on the hard wood. And the thing inside screeches and howls its inhuman scream. Startling her backwards until she backs up into a wall of hard muscle.

"Have some fuckin' respect," Gendry barks at them. Her cousin placing himself between her and the shattered remains of the Brotherhood Without Banners. "And sober up. We're moving soon." Gendry places his large hand on her shoulder and turns her away from the monster, and the men guarding it. Gently urges her back toward the center of their camp.

"Have the scouts returned?" she asks.

"A few Spearwives came back with an all clear, the Greenseers are still in their trance though. Jon wants them to have a look at the castle before we march."

"I'd like to see."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Magic and monsters. The things of myth and legend have now become routine in her life. Her mother had cursed her all her life, saying she spent too much time in her books. That she should be spending time in court with her father, that she should be learning the work of becoming the lady of great house.

'She's mocking me', she had thought back then. 'A cruel joke.' As if she would ever be married off with greyscale's mark smeared over half her face.

It still feels like a cruel joke. The "Your Graces" and "My Queens." What exactly is she queen of? The broken remains of the Free Folk? Their forces slaughtered first at the Wall and then at the battle for Winterfell. Then a few beleaguered battalions of her father's men, faithful to the Red Witch and the Red God. The Brothers of the Night's Watch, last of their ancient order. A few Northern houses who had been left behind by Sansa's spread to the Vale and Riverlands.

Bastards, beggars and broken things.

The terms of the summit had stated that each queen was only allowed to bring ten thousand men at arms for her protection. Did they know that was all the men she had?

"Your Grace." Gendry opens a tent flap ahead of her. The smell of incense and herbs wafting from the enclosed space.

She smiles at her cousin, and he smiles back. At least she's not alone anymore. At least she's not the only one left.

The Wildling Greenseers sit in a circle around a small fire. Sitting on furs and straw pillows. Their bodies swaying back and forth in the thin smoke hanging in the air. Clad in their furs and leathers, their rough spun linens. Each donning the red streaks of Weirwood tears. The War Paint for their broken people. Their eyes pale white as they peer through the eyes of their familiars.

In the center sits Varamyr, but the Wildlings call him Six-Skins. His wolf sits behind him, black fur matted and speckled with the white hairs of old age. There's a time when she would've feared the beast. But there is a much larger wolf that stalks her camp and keeps her safe.

Next to him sits Val, her long blonde braid hanging to the side. Though her eyes are chalky and pale, the Wildling princess seems to look at her and smiles, motioning with her hand for her to sit next to her on the furs.

She does as she is bidden and sits with Val, resting her head against the woman's shoulder. There's comfort here. In her smell, in the sway. It brings her into a sort of a trance. There are no Greenseers in House Baratheon. There's no magic in her blood. The wild does not call to her, nor do the flames of the Red God. An ordinary girl, save for the scaled stone marring her face.

The gentle swaying is interrupted as Val gasps.

"What do you see?"

"I see a castle." she says, her rough lilting accent rolling over her ‘R’s and drawing out her vowels. "A big one. Of dark stone. So many men. So many towers. Some are melting, like hot wax dripping down a candle stem."

"Harrenhal," Shireen explains. "The melted towers are from the Targaryen conquest 300 years ago. Dragonfire."

"Aye. Dragons," Val answers in a daze. "I think I see them too. A shadow of black birds growing with the rising sun." Her chest rises and falls with excited breaths. "I'm going to fly closer."

"Val..." Six-Skins warns but the Wildling princess doesn't listen. Instead reaching for Shireen's hand, webbing their fingers together. Her head tilting up and moving too and fro as if she's searching the sky.

"Can you see them?" Shireen asks, her own excitement beginning to bubble. "The Dragons? The Dragon Queen?"

"Men in black armor, marching in perfect lines. Riders with copper skin wielding strange swords.”

"Don't push your hawk, Val."

Again the warning is ignored as Val's mouth hangs loose from her jaw in astonishment, sweat beading on her forehead as her neck cranes upward.

"Dragons," she gasps. "Fire made Flesh. Three. One large, two smaller."

She'd heard the stories. From her father and Ser Davos. From Maester Aemon, gods rest him. The last Targaryen princess travelling over Essos, hatching dragons, freeing slaves, riding at the head of a Dothraki horde. The sort of adventures people sing about round a fire.

"Do you see the Queen?"

Val seems to focus, squinting her cloudy eyes as if she's protecting them from the sun. And then pulls back, wincing. Pinching her eyes shut, and rubbing them fiercely with her thumbs. Smearing the red warpaint around her eyes and swearing quietly under her breath.

"Warned you," Six-Skins states. Gravity and gravel scratching his voice. "Now quiet so we can focus."

Val grunts and stands, shaking off the cloud of the trance as she pulls Shireen to her feet, gesturing toward the ten flap where Gendry waits, crinkling his nose at the burning herbs.

"Did the dragon eat your hawk?"

"No," Val answers. "It got scared, you can't force prey too close to a predator. Instinct takes over."

"A few spearwife scouts returned, gave the all clear for the trek ahead. M'lady," Gendry announces, eager to change the subject away from magic and mysticism.

"That so, little bull?" Val mocks, and laughs as Gendry pulls a face. "C'mon, the 'lordlings' will all be gatherin' to hear what they have to say."

Gendry clears a path through the camp. Shouting, 'Make way for the Queen, Make way for Queen Shireen.' Using his size and his warhammer to reinforce the order upon the mixed crowds of Wildlings and soldiers. Some still have armor, most have changed into chain mail, leather and furs.

It's hard not to notice the stares. All looking down at her. ' _It’s not on purpose_ ' she lies to herself. _'You're smaller than they are, they have to look down._ ' But it’s impossible to ignore the sneers. The stares. The shock.

She's always gotten looks due to her Greyscale. But it’s amplified now. Before eyes would be on her father, with only the undisciplined casting their gaze her way. But now it’s even worse. She is their queen. They are supposed to look at her. They are supposed to look _to_ her. For what? What leadership does she even offer? An ordinary girl, not yet seen her fifteenth nameday.

Her council had all given her reasons. 'A righteous cause'; 'A gentle heart' ;'A legitimate heir'; 'Freedom from Tyranny' ; 'A home south of the wall.' Hollow words that never seem to ring entirely true. The Red Witch with her ever changing visions. Ser Davos with the smile he only ever gives her. Ser Richard Horpe with his blind loyalty. Lyanna Mormont with her stern glare. Val with her warging and Weirwood tears.

Only one has given her the whole truth, offered with kind eyes and unflinching honesty. "There's no-where else for us to go. And there's no-where else for you to go either," Jon Snow had said. Not as a threat, but as a statement of fact. He had said it on one knee. Kneeling before her offering his sword. A dark knight from one of her story books. "So if you will be our queen, and pledge to stand with us against the dead, then we will stand with you as well."

"Leetle Queen," the deep rumbling voice comes from high above her, pulling her out of her thoughts as she cranes her neck up to look at the Giant above.

"Hello Wun-Wun." She smiles at the Giant as he takes two heavy steps toward her. The ground quaking beneath his feet. He squats low, but even that doesn't make him much smaller to her.

"Deed you hear," he starts in his slow broken speech before feigning a wolf's howl, "at the moon?"

"I did, I must've heard at least a hundred."

Wun-Wun grunts and looks at Val who answers him in the tongue of the First Men.

"Many More, Leetle Queen."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to hear as well as you."

"Deed you hear," he stops and ponders. "Our wolf?"

She pinches her eyes in confusion, and waits as he and Val try to get his meaning across.

"Direwolf," Val finally answers. "Our wolves, north of the Wall."

"Oh!" she says excitedly. "No. There are no direwolves south of the Wall. Well except Ghost, and he doesn't howl." She waits for Val to translate.

"One more." He motions to his ear with a finger. "I hear. Mammoths hear. Mammoths fear our wolves."

"I understand," she answers.

"Last Mammoths," Wun-Wun reiterates, motioning to the edge of camp where the small herd greedily strips greenery from the trees. Before motioning back to himself, and the few others with him. A tall giantess with black and ash hair, a trio of red heads. "Last Giants."

A heaviness hangs in the air around her as she grapples with his sparse words and nods. "You're right, I'll send some more spearwives to help you guard them at night."

There's another pause as Val translates and Wun-Wun grunts his approval. Expressing his gratitude in a language that she can't wrap her tongue around.

“Do you really think there are direwolves south of the Wall?” Gendry asks.

“Don’t know,” Val answers. “But I do know there’s a pack following our camp. A big one. It hasn’t attacked anyone. Just been eatin’ our scraps as we move. Been following us since we came out of the swamp.”

Something white moves at the edge of her vision. White like the sea salt sticking to the rocks of Dragonstone’s shore. White like pure snowfall at the top of the world.

There’s at least one Direwolf south of the Wall.

She follows Ghost, not exactly sneaking away from Val and Gendry, but not interrupting their banter either. He leads her through the camp, through the quiet spaces between tents where she’s not disturbed, out to where the trees hang dark and heavy over them, and only scarce beams of sunlight pierce the veil.

It’s in one of those sunbeams that Ghost stops, and the murmur of a man’s voice can be heard. She buries her fingers into the wolf’s thick fur as she passes along its side.

“Hello, Your Grace,” the familiar voice answers.

“Hello, Jon.” She continues to pet Ghost, her hand sinking wrist deep into the thick plush of his fur. “What are you doing out here?”

A rare smile graces his lips. “I found something, would you like to see?” She nods excitedly as he leads Ghost and her deeper into the woods.

“I found it when I was walking the perimeter last night.”

“Do I have to order you to sleep, Jon?”

“Not sure how much good it’ll do, Your Grace.”

He helps her down a slight embankment and she gasps in astonishment. It’s small, so small compared to the ones at Winterfell and Bear Island. So much smaller than the ones her father burned.

“It’s so small,” she notes aloud. It’s ashen white trunk twists as it struggles to bring the blood red leaves into the sunlight.

“Aye, it doesn’t have a face either. Means it’s new and young.” He motions around the Weirwood. “I spent the night cleaning it up. Cut down some of those branches so that it can get more light. Dug a bit of a trench so it can get more water next time it rains.”

Her eyes roam around finding the signs of his labor. The fallen branches and an intricate spiralling pattern of small waterways surrounding the tree. It’s almost magical. But then there’s the dark circles under his eyes, and the heavy armor and gorget he wears at all times. 

“Promise not to tell the witch,” he asks conspiratorially.

“I promise.”

He follows her back into camp, where all the men are bustling preparing to continue their long march. Ser Davos calls to her from her wagon. No royal carriage, but a sturdy set of wheels and warm furs, protected by barrels of supplies. The only special thing was the mounted lantern pole Gendry fashioned for her, so she can read her books on the long journey South.

Jon kneels before her, interlocking his fingers and boosting her up to the seat next to Davos.

“Thank you, My lord,” she offers a dramatic swooping bow.

“My pleasure, Your Grace.” He bows in return as Gendry rides up on horseback behind them, donning his bulls head helmet.

“Jon, there’s-”

“CROW!” Tormund Giantsbane hollers, marching up to the wagon with heavy staggering steps. Jon nods to her before turning away to meet with the Wildling. The two murmuring for a few minutes as the scars lining his face deepen with worry. He returns after several long minutes, his step now heavy. Her friend Jon, gone and replaced with Lord Snow, the Commander of her armies.

“Your Grace, the Greenseers have spotted an army moving towards Harrenhal. About fifty thousand men, in gold armor with two dozen elephants.”

“The Golden Company?” Davos chokes on his shock. “Who would-?" 

“Cersei,” Shireen answers. The mention of her long estranged aunt makes her skin crawl. Her aunt that forbade her from court due to the stone scars on her face. Who sneered and mocked her family. Who always made her mother’s rages all the worse. Fear begins to boil up in her belly.

“Aye, from the direction they’re coming it’s probably Cersei,” Jon agrees.

A battle. A real battle. There are no walls to retreat behind out here. No way to wait at Dragonstone while father campaigns at Kings Landing. No boat to stay behind while father charges the Wildlings. No wall of ice to hide at while Jon marches south to retake Winterfell. 

Her inexperience, and fear falls down on her fast. Covering her and choking her. What is she supposed to do? How can she order men to battle? What happens if they lose? What will become of her then? Cersei won’t allow any usurper to stay alive. Much less one with a Baratheon name.

“Do you want to make camp and wait it out, Your Grace? Let the Dragons take care of it? It’s not our war,” Gendry chirps from behind them.

She looks down from her seat at Jon, his oath to her repeating in her head. ‘If you stand with us against the dead, we will stand with you.’ A simple offering of mutual aid. Transactional but true. The whole point of this summit is to gather forces to fight the dead.

With a hard swallow, she slowly moves to stand on her wagon bench. Fear trembling her fingers as she says what she must say in as strong a voice as she can muster.

“A force is marching on the peace summit at Harrenhal with violent intent and we will march to provide aid,” she proclaims. Her voice wavering more than she would like. Sounding squeaky and soft to her own ear. “The battle for the Southern lands is not our battle, but it is a battle we must fight none the less. We cannot ask that the queens of south send their men to stand with us, if we do not stand with them.” She looks down at Jon once more. “Lord Snow, ready your forces.”

He bows low, fist pressed to his sternum. “At once, Your Grace,” he returns before barking out orders across.

“Well done, Your Grace,” Ser Davos says, grabbing her shaking hand and rubbing it gently.

“I hope so,” she answers, catching her breath and wiping away a nervous tear as Ser Davos urges their wagon forward. “I hope so.”

* * *

**~~~~ **

**~~ARYA~~ **

**NO-ONE**

Her nails won't get clean. No matter how hard she scrubs in the waters of God's Eye lake, they just won't get clean. The dirt is embedded deep in her nail bed, and the folded stalks of cattail grass only serve to scrape ineffectually at the stains.

She needs a brush, a horse hair brush and a real bath with hot water. Perhaps some scent to cover up the smell of the long road.

Arya Stark would balk at such things. Arya Stark never needed such comforts. But she is not Arya Stark right now. Right now Arya Stark is the last person she needs to be. The face she wears is familiar and comfortable, it is a face she has worn many times in the year since her return to Westeros.

It is a face that needs clean hands, clean hair, and clean skin.

She finds a place that is hidden among the tall cattails and dives into the lake, scraping at her skin with the small cake of tallow soap before running her fingers through her hair and doing the same. A girl must be clean.

A girl combs the mousey brown locks of hair, and pulls them back into a tail, before fixing it in a tight knot. The part of her that's Arya stark remembers the intricate plaits and loops her mother used to fix her hair into. But, this face does not have a mother. This face never felt her mother's ivory comb against her scalp, or gentle fingers through her hair, or heard the soft humming of songs.

This face doesn't know those things.

Hidden in a girl's pack is a dress. The dress a lady's maid would wear. A dress looted from the empty rooms at The Twins. A simple dress of dark blue, with all the trappings of nobility carefully removed with a razors edge.

A girl must not attract attention. A girl must fade into the background if she is to learn the truth. If she is to accomplish her goal.

Arya Stark had once resided at Harrenhal. A prisoner and a servant. Serving as cupbearer to Tywin Lannister himself when he lorded over this land. It is different now though. The smoke of war does not hang in the air. And death doesn't fill the lands. 

Instead the surrounding lands are filled with workcamps and cottages. Masonry lodges, and ironworks. The walls of the castle are lined with wooden scaffolds and bustling with work. Fishermen's huts and small mills dot the edges of God's Eye lake. 

It is not Tywin Lannister who reigns here any longer, but Arya Stark's sister. 

'Your sister' a voice inside reminds her. Reminding her that she could run up to the gates and proclaim herself and be at Sansa's side.

At her brother's side. 

A girl swallows Arya Stark down and joins the line of peasants waiting for entry to Harrenhal. Fishermen and fishwives with barrels of their catch. Merchants with carts and casks of wine. Farmers hauling in their harvest for the granaries. Men and women younger than her eager to earn an apprenticeship for the myriad of guilds gathering at the castle. Stonemasons, carpenters, fletchers, cooks, weavers, seamstresses, healers.

Blacksmiths.

Arya Stark's eyes open wide at the thought, and she pops up on her tiptoes to look through the crowd. But a girl soon remembers her place, and remembers that a boy left her first. That a boy wouldn't be here. Shouldn't be here. And that a girl shouldn't care if he was.

The scribe at the gate directs her to the steward. And, like she expected, he looks flustered with the excitement. With so many royal heads all gathering in one place, he has a reason to. A short balding man with too few wrinkles and too many chins, he snaps at scullery maids as they drag the ashes from a row of stone ovens lining the huge kitchen. Sweat dripping down his brow in rivulets. His face growing red with the temperature and with his anger. The maids shuffle away in shame, avoiding the gaze of the others in the kitchen, and avoiding her entirely.

"M'Lord," she calls, changing her tone to one of humility. Passing him a clean handkerchief.

"Who are you?" he orders briskly. Snapping the cloth and blotting his forehead. "You're not one of mine, are you?"

"No, m'lord," answering with a slight dip of her chin, folding her hands graciously. Letting them hang low on her belly, just like Cersei's ladies maids in the Red Keep. "At least, not yet, M'lord."

"There are to be five queens in the hall, I can't bring on some-" He snorts derisively, but pauses looking down at the handkerchief. Another looted artifact from the Frey girls. Clean, crisp, and edged with simple embroidery. She can see the calculations in his eyes as he looks at her from her feet to her face. If only she could blush through the false face. Instead she looks down to her boots demurely. "What's your name girl?"

What name to give him? A girl has worn so many names these past years. This face has worn countless. She decides on a name she has used before. On the name she used here before. 

"Ari, M'Lord," she answers.

"Have you worked in a noble house before, Ari?"

"Yes, M'lord. I was ladies maid to House Frey 'fore it fell." 

She is grateful for the false face. For she feels the faint tug of a smile, and the weight of her Needle strapped to her thigh. 

But the Steward notices nothing. And instead clucks his tongue. "Nasty business that." 

"Terrible, M'lord." 

A mischievous glint sparkles in the Steward's eye as he takes on the appearance of an old crone gossiping around the well. "Did you see what happened?" 

"I'm afraid not, M'lord, only what happened after. I was tending to m'lady Shirei when I heard Lady Joyeuse start screaming. It was chaos, M'lord. I've never seen anything like it." 

Lady Crane would have been proud of her mumming. The hand gestures. The horrified gasps. The lurid details of the dead. The fawning sighs as she tells of the brave knights of the Vale who came and took her ladies into their care as wards of the Northern Crown. 

"But you don't know who did it?" the Steward asks at the end of her story. 

"I know not, M'lord. I swear on the Seven. Some say t'were the ghosts of the Starks, for the maidens and children were left unharmed and only Lord Frey and his sons and men at arms were killed." She takes a breath, placing her hand on her heart as if she was afraid. "I know nothing of spectres, or the dead or the others. But Lady Joyeuse saw and she would not speak of it. So terrible it must have been."

Lady Joyeuse Frey, eighth wife of Walder Frey, didn't need to be terrified into silence. She didn't need to be threatened or cajoled. A girl didn't need to use the memory tricks and hypnosis she had learned in the House of Black and White. The young lady with fear in her eyes had sat in silence surrounded by dozens of dead men, counted to one hundred as instructed, and then began to scream.

"Ghosts," the Steward sighs and stares off into the middle distances. "There are too many ghosts that haunt these lands, too much death and unfinished business." He turns back to her and gestures. "Follow me, there's a chest of silver you can set to polishing before the Dragon Queen arrives."

He takes her through the expansive kitchen, past dozens of cooks and bakers. Past a roasting boar, and rising bread. Up a winding set of stairs to a long narrow room, lined with barrels, drinks, and chests of serving trays and goblets and flasks. The servants entrance to the great hall, where flagons are refilled, and food is plated for the nobility. The steward motions to a chest and tosses her a bluing rag before leaving her to her task, and to ponder the nature of ghosts.

Most people are like the Steward and think that ghosts come from extraordinary circumstances. A horrific murder, an un-avenged betrayal, or a depraved killing. But at the House of Black and White, she learned differently.

Death does not care for unfinished business, it does not care for what might have been. It is around every corner, and every nook in the world. And ghosts are not a matter of the quality of the dead, but of quantity. With all the dead in this land, after her brother’s war, and all that followed, it is only a matter of numbers on how many souls slipped through death's fingers and are left to haunt the waking world. 

Behind a wood panel wall, she can hear speaking, vaguely muffled voices and the soft scrape of slippers on the stone floor. And a girl's breath catches as Arya Stark hears her sister for the first time in years.

"What do dragons eat anyway?" Sansa says to unknown parties on the other side of the wooden wall. 

There's an edge to Sansa's voice that wasn't there when they were seperated. A coldness that she doesn’t remember. 'She sounds like mother,' Arya Stark whines in a girl's head. 'Strong and soft at the same time. Demanding to be heard'

A girl silences Arya Stark, as she creeps to the door of the narrow room and listens more intently.

"I don't know, Your Grace," a man answers, "but I am sure it is not grain." 

"Was that supposed to be a joke, Lord Baelish?" Sansa snaps back angrily.

"No. Your Grace, only an observation." There's a pause followed by the sure steady step of a man's boots. "Sansa, please..."

"What was Jon thinking?" Sansa hisses. 

At her brother's name, Arya's heart squeezes tight. An ache like an open wound blooming from within. The needle hidden under her skirts burning like a hot iron. How can she face him? How will she look upon him and not rip off the false face and run to his arms?

"Joffery," she whispers below her breath. A ritual incantation to harden her heart and focus on her goal. "Cersei. Walder Frey, Meryn Trant, Tywin Lannister, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarion, Thoros Of Myr, Illyan Paine, The Mountain. Joffery. Cersei.-"

Cersei. Arya Stark cannot kill Cersei from the safety of her brother's arms. Or by standing at her sister's side.

"I don't know," Baelish answers. “but we have always found opportunity in your brother’s folly. This will be no different than before.” 

“This is a different game,” Sansa sighs, the heavy fabric of her skirts rustling, as a wooden chair creaks under her weight. “I cannot rely on the lord's loyalty to Robb’s legacy any more.” 

Another name that hurts her heart, another wound reopening in her chest. Another brother whose arms she cannot run to. Whose memory is tainted by a night of bloody fires and darkest betrayal. 

A brother she avenged. 

“-Walder Frey, Meryn Trant. Tywin Lannister.” 

“The game is always the same, my queen. And you’re right, you must grow beyond your brother’s ambition. Beyond his vision.” Baelish grows quiet, and Arya cannot hear the whispered words. But the tone is saccharine sweet, tense and dripping with an unknown pull. Like honey slowly falling off a spoons edge in a long sticky string. 

“I know what visions you imagine, Lord Baelish,” Sansa answers. Her voice stony and cold and tense with restraint. “It would do you best to put them out of your mind.” 

The silence behind the wall is long, and a girl holds her breath to not let even the smallest sound shatter the moment. But all moments must end, and this one does with an ear splitting roar. So loud and deep that it resonates up and down the stone halls of the castle. Shaking the shelves, sending goblets clattering down to the tiles with a quake. From outside there’s commotion, screams and cries and the shout of- 

“-Dragons-” she exhales as another roar reverberates behind the first. Followed by another. 

The silver lies forgotten on the floor as she rushes down the small circling stairway, through the hidden servants passages Arya Stark memorized when she was last at Harrenhal, rushing as fast as her feet will carry her to the nearest window. 

“Dragons,” she repeats. Her eyes growing wide as she sees the legendary beasts circling Harrenhall. Weaving between the dozen towers. A green one, a cream one, and black one. And she’s taken back to that place deep under the Red Keep, where the bones of Balerion lay. A mouth large enough to swallow her whole. Teeth long as bastard blades. 

Two of the Dragons fly off in the direction of God's Eye Lake, while the third, the large black one trimmed with red makes lazy loops as it lands in the center of the castle's court, a small silver figure slipping off its back and greeting the Steward at the entrance to the castle. 

With a gasp, she sprints back through the castle to the little servants quarters aside the Great Hall. And quickly gathers the spilled goblets as other servants rush into the room bearing trays. 

"Come on, girl," a matronly woman hisses, shoving a flagon into her hands. "Shoulders back, Eyes down. You are to be there only when needed, nothing more." 

'A girl is no-one' she reminds herself. 

'A girl is Arya Stark'

* * *

****

**MISSANDEI**

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn,” she announces. Holding her head high, her back straight. Feet planted square beneath her. In line with her hips and her shoulders. Letting the conviction flow through her. Letting it fill her voice with strength. “Of House Targaryen. First of her name.” 

The Audience chamber is silent. Tables sit in the center of the room. Arranged in a large hexagon surrounded by twenty- five chairs. Each table draped with the banner of its queen. A Green field with a golden rose. A bloody lion in a field of grain. A red heart wreathed in flame. A grey wolf's head on cloth white as snow. And the three headed dragon. The red of fire. The black of ancient blood. 

“The Unburnt.” 

Her voice echoes on the stone walls. The keystone archways above her reflecting and refracting each note and carrying it. Letting all hear her words. 

“Queen of the Andals and the First Men.” 

The young woman seated on the Throne flushes with contempt and fumes as if her red hair was set aflame. This woman does not understand fire. No-one who has not witnessed dragons’ fire can. 

“Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea.” 

Do they even know what that means? How vast a territory the Dothraki Sea is? How wild and untamed? How long it was fractured between warring factions of Khals? What it means for the whole Dothraki people to be united behind one ruler? No, they could not know. They would not even wish to know. 

“Breaker of Chains.” 

She lets her voice grow thunderous and resonant. Lets it fill with passion and aggression. Lets it charge through her and from her to race across the chamber. Forcing those who hear come face to face with its might. 

“The Mother of Dragons.” 

And there is silence again, her hands clasping behind her back as her words resonate through the hall. Sinking into the minds of those who are gathered. May they hear and understand, so that this conquest may be swift and bloodless. 

There has been too much blood already. 

Daenerys steps past her, the chain she wears in place of crown ringing, her boots landing sure and steady, the bells in her braids jingling softly. Her queen scans the room, looking to the brown haired woman sitting at the elderly one’s side. Then to the line of servants holding jugs and trays. One particularly nervous looking girl holding a silver platter with the ceremonial bread, salt and wine of Guests’ Right. 

The servant girl looks back and forth between Daenerys and the woman with copper red hair seated at the stone throne. The air in the room is thick and silent as queens weigh each other with their eyes. 

Grey Worm makes eye contact and places his hand on the hilt of his sword and she shakes her head, her curls bouncing with the slight movement, giving away the subtle gesture. 

“I thank you for welcoming me to your hall, Sansa Stark.” There is a challenge in her queen's voice, in the tone, in her posture, in the obviously missing address ‘your grace’. 

It does not go unnoticed. 

“The Honor is mine. Daenerys Targareyn,” Sansa Stark says, her hand gripping the armrests of the throne, as if she would have it pried from her cold dead fingers. 

Tyrion shatters the tension, pushing through ahead of Daenerys to approach the throne.

“Sansa,” he starts, “-Your Grace, my dear wife. I cannot tell you how much it warms my heart to see you alive and well. I had feared the worst when you disappeared.” 

“What ‘worst’ was that _my dear husband_ ,” Sansa answers. Her words like a cold wind. Like icy daggers that tear through fiber and flesh to pierce the heart. “Was it that I had been killed? Or that I orchestrated your capture?” 

“Both,” Tyrion answers. “Though fortunately for me, I have friends in low places.” 

“So I can see,” the slender man in sharp blacks replies with a wry smile. “As you have so graciously returned Lord Varys to our shores.” He nods to the bald man as he steps off the dais, moving slowly yet gracefully. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he addresses Daenerys with a slight bow. “The courtly banter of Westeros has been lacking since Lord Tyrion’s exile. I am Lord Baelish, Hand to Queen Sansa Stark, and Harrenhal is my estate. We welcome you and yours as our guests.” 

He snaps his fingers and the nervous looking servant girl immediately bustles over holding the tray of bread, salt and wine. Ser Jorah takes two quick steps forward. Ready to fulfill his duty in case these plotters are trying to poison his queen. But Daenerys holds up her hand, her knight halting with a quick shake of her head as she takes the offering. 

“Thank you my Lord, for extending us your hospitality,” Daenerys answers, turning and offering the goblet. 

Missandei takes it as the servant girl shuffles over allowing her to take part in covenant ritual. A strange superstitious practice but, strange superstitious practices have their uses. 

“Now,” her queen resumes as the rite is passed among their delegation. “Will you tell us the purpose of this summit? Have you elected to take up my offer to bend the knee and become Wardeness of the North?” 

Tyrion looks up at Daenerys with wide eyes and his jaw agape. Amusement flashes in Lord Baelish’s eyes as he turns to face his queen. 

“When my father was no older than I, he went to war against your father. He and his brother in arms revolted against the crown. Your father murdered my uncle and my grandfather,” Sansa states, head bobbing as if the thin silver crown threw off her balance. 

“My father was a wicked man,” Daenerys counters, quickly interrupting the avalanche of words before it can gain momentum. “I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father.” 

The Queen in the North pauses for a moment. The unexpected humility cracking her icy exterior. 

“I was.” The answer comes after a beat. “For the sins of my father who questioned the legitimacy of Robert Baratheon’s heir. For the war my brother waged in demand for justice. For the famine and flux that gripped King’s Landing. For the _untimely_ death of Joffery Baratheon. All of it. I paid with blood and humiliation, with grief and betrayal.” There is a heaviness to the words, as if it is a confession.

But as soon as it appeared, the warmth is gone. Replaced by glacial ice. Cold and unyielding. 

  
“So no, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her Name, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, I will not judge you for the deeds of your father.” The titles spit in rapid succession. “But for the crimes committed by your father, Aerys the Second, the Mad King. For the corruption allowed by Robert Barathon. For the cruelty of Joffery Baratheon. My valiant and noble brother declared the North and her kingdoms separate from the rule of whomever sits on the Iron Throne. Our people declared that the North will kneel to no King but the King in the North whose _name_ is Stark.”

There have only been a few times when Daenerys has truly lost her temper. The queen has been blessed with the patience to withstand insults from Noblemen, and mercenaries, slavers and slaves alike. The insults of weak men do not phase her in the slightest. 

But there are also times when her temper flares hot, when her jaw sets into place and her heels grind into the floor. There are times when Missandei needs to intervene and give her queen a chance to control herself. 

And so she straightens her spine and steps into the withering gaze of the Queen in the North. 

“But you are not a King, Your Grace.” Missandei counters, “Or is that part of your brother’s declaration open to interpretation? And if so how much of it can be reinterpreted?” 

“I am Robb Stark’s True Heir,” Sansa shouts, bolting her feet. Something violent and angry coloring her voice. The sudden movement surprises everyone. Lord Baelish quickly makes his way to her side as she sits back down. Regaining her breath and her composure. “Robb was robbed of a son by the machinations of the Lannisters. My brothers were robbed of their homes by the betrayal of Theon Greyjoy. One died by my second husband’s hand, the other has been lost to winter.” 

“I am sorry for your losses. I too have lost a brother,” Daenerys replies, her voice surprisingly tender. The apology hangs in the air for a moment and goes unanswered. But the room has grown calm and quiet, as if the rage and tension had been exhausted. “If we are not here to reach an accord over the rule of Westeros, why have we been summoned?” 

Sansa sighs heavily, her icey exterior falling back into place. “Beyond the Wall, there is a threat to the safety of Westeros that requires the attention of all its rulers. It is a threat that none of us can defeat alone.” 

“What threat?” Daenerys asks, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Missandei. 

“Her Grace’s bastard brother, Jon Snow, is coming with proof of this threat. It would be best to discuss it once all delegations are present. He and the Princess Shireen crossed the Trident three days ago and should be arriving within the next few days. The Delegation from Queen Cersei-” 

“Jon Snow is alive?” Tyrion interrupts, looking back at Varys who shrugs. “We were under the impression he died when you took Winterfell.” 

“Lord Varys,” Baelish smiles wide. “You’re losing your touch.” 

Varys ponders a moment, stepping out on slippered feet. The heavy brocade of his robes scraping the stone floor. “Perhaps I have, though not enough to try and plant whores on an island full of eunuchs. What secrets could you hope to gather in an empty brothel, My Lord?” 

“Enough,” Daenerys says, holding her hand to halt Varys’ advance. “I will not allow these negotiations to be reduced to matters of cocks, or lack thereof.” 

“Agreed,” Sansa replies from her throne, standing again. This time the placid porcelain mask is held firmly in place. “I am sure your party is tired from their long journey. We’ve set aside the Eastern towers for your retinue.” 

Harrenhal is unlike any castle she has seen. Unlike the gridded passageways of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, these halls have been restored and destroyed many times over the centuries. Each passage marked by another hand's grand vision. 

As the steward leads across the stone walkway connecting the main castle to the eastern towers, Daenerys sighs in relief, and loops her arm through Missandei’s. “I had feared that Drogon would have burned the place down while we were inside,” her queen whispers. 

“He still can,” the scribe whispers back. “Though Lord Baelish uses so much scent, I worry that he would catch on a candle before Drogon had his chance.” 

They giggle together, like the little girls they most certainly are not. 

“You told me that Jon Snow was dead,” Tyrion snaps at Varys behind them. 

“I told you that I didn’t think he was alive. I believed Baelish would have removed him from the board. I can’t believe he didn’t do it. Losing my touch. Bah. The nerve. He’s the one losing his touch. Leaving a potential male usurper alive and supporting another queen?” 

“Who is he?” Daenerys asks as they move into the tower, a room with many couches and low tables. A small hall, very much like the great hall in the central castle. “Why does he matter?” 

“Jon Snow is the last living son of Eddard Stark. I know him, well, knew him. We traveled to the Wall together years ago. He was set on joining the Night’s Watch.” 

“He is not serving his sister?” Missandei asks, nodding politely to some pages carrying one of Daenerys’s many trunks and directing him to set it aside. 

“Apparently not,” Tyrion answers, clucking his tongue and hopping onto one of the seats. Snapping his fingers at a servant and indicating for a flagon wine. “Varys, we need to find out exactly what happened to drive a wedge between Jon and Sansa. We could use it to our advantage.” 

Politics, spying, games. It's the same everywhere. Coming to a different continent doesn’t change that fact. 

The days that pass are quiet, full of terse exchanges and tense audiences. Impatiently waiting for news from Cersei or a glimpse of Shireen Baratheon’s banners on the horizon. Everyday, Sansa’s scouts ride out on swift horses and every evening their raven’s reports are read. The Wildlings make steady progress, creeping closer. And all is quiet to the south. 

“She’s plotting something,” Tyrion announces at the evening’s gathering. The three queens taking their places in the hexagon of tables. “Cersei, that is.” 

The old woman, Olenna Tyrell, huffs indignantly. “Of course she is. Isn’t that why we are all here, to plot and scheme? I would expect nothing less of your dear sister, it must be quite sporting of her.” 

There has been little reason to engage with the Tyrells save for niceties. Their queen is quiet and reserved, with large eyes that seem to take the measure of everyone around her. And she speaks only in pleasantries, in compliments and disarming questions. The opposite is true of her grandmother, who is only capable of cutting remarks and scathing rebukes. Her age has not dulled her wit one iota. 

Daenerys likes her a great deal. Eagerly anticipating her verbal spars with Lord Baelish, Tyrion and Varys. Missandei finds her a bit tactless, though more than once she has had to bite her tongue to hold back an eruption of giggles. 

“She indicated her intention to-” Lord Baelish, 

“And yet we’ve seen no movement to the south,” Tyrion replies. 

“Your scouts have seen no movement to the south,” Daenerys clarifies, crossing her arms.

“If you are doubting the abilities of my men,” Sansas begins before being cut off by the Dragon Queen. 

“No, I am not doubting their capabilities or loyalty, only acknowledging their limitations,” she answers. “I will fly out on Drogon on the ‘morrow. I can go farther, faster than scouts on horseback.” 

“Khaleesi, No,” Jorah interjects. “Let Qhono and your blood riders fan out and see if Cersei has come out of her hiding place at all.” 

“The matter is not open for debate. We have sat idle for days with no news from the Lannister court. If Cersei has chosen to withdraw her involvement in this summit, we should move on without her. If she is plotting something as Tyrion suspects, we should know and act accordingly.” 

And with that the matter is closed. 

Daenerys’ Dragon riders armor was made by some of the finest craftsmen in Essos. Black Leather etched with dragon scales over enameled red chainmail. Plate had been too heavy, and her only true threat in the skies is a stray arrow. Though the archer would have to be either extraordinarily talented or extraordinarily lucky to strike true. 

But worry still tugs in her heart as she laces the leather vambrace up her queen’s arm. 

“Our last reports before we left said that Cersei was building Ballistae all over Kings Landing. Not just on the walls. But on the rooftops too.” 

Daenerys only hums as she affixes her gauntlet. “She is a cunning one, I’ll admit that.” 

The confidence does little to settle the nerves tying knots in her belly. “Yes, she is. You should not underestimate her.” 

“Gentle Heart,” her queen sighs and grasps her hand, stilling her trembling fingers. “I will not be flying near King’s Landing. I will know long before that whether her delegation has departed. There is nowhere safer for me than with Drogon.” 

Missandei nods, though the doubts remain. ‘A Dragon is not a slave’ Daenerys often says. And even a son sometimes disobeys his mother. But now is not the time for doubts. 

“Safe travels, Your Grace. I await your return.” 

“Keep an eye on Tyrion, I fear old animosities may be affecting his judgement.” 

“I will, Your Grace.” 

A few minutes later, there is a mighty roar and a gust of wind. And the last Dragonrider lifts into the air. Flying off into the rising sun. 

* * *

****

**BRIENNE**

Oathkeeper clashes against Dickon Tarley’s blade. The Valyrian steel biting against it with a flicker of orange sparks. 

“Move your feet, boy,” the older Tarley barks, circling them in front of the jeering crowd of soldiers. Why is it whenever she spars it becomes a spectacle? Everyone gathering to come look at the freak. The ogre of a woman who can best each of them. At least now there’s someone to spar with. 

All of her usual soldiers had long given up on single combat with her. 

Dickon listens to his father, feigning a right half turn before lurching the other way and lunging at her. 

He’s much too large and much too slow for such a move. She easily parries, throwing his arm out, and slashes at his exposed side. 

There are Dothraki in the crowd. The click their tongues in ululating cries and wolfs howls. Speaking quickly and excitedly in their strange tongue. Even the foreigners have come to watch the freak. 

She presses her advantage. Forcing Dickon to keep stepping backwards. Forcing him to expend energy blocking her blows. 

Let them watch. Let them see. 

Oathkeeper flashes in the sunlight, and Dickon spins away from her before he falls back into the circling crowd. Gaining a low stance and bouncing back and forth on his knees. 

He’s a brawler, not a swordsman. He’d do better with a hefty weapon, a warhammer or a battleaxe. But Lord Tarly must pass on his legendary Heartsbane to someone. So he forces his son into a form he’s ill suited towards. 

What a waste. 

She lunges, and when he moves to parry, spins into him, checking him with her shoulder, bashing her elbow into his ribs, and slashes. Easily knocking the sword from his hand. 

The circle erupts. Some laugh. Some cheer. It’s all the same to her. 

Brienne picks up Dickon’s sword and hands it back to him. 

“Best of three?” she offers. 

“That’s enough,” Lord Tarley proclaims before his son can answer. Dispersing the throng of men with a wave of his hand as he strides forward. “Offer your congratulations to Lady Brienne.”

The young man takes a deep breath. Burying his shame, before raising his head. “Congratulations, it was a valiant fight.” 

“Indeed my Lord, you fight well. I look forward to a rematch.” 

The older lord makes a sharp movement of his jaw, a gesture that the younger takes as dismissal. With a stiff bow, Dickon strides away, his ruddy skin turning redder by the minute. 

“Lady Brienne,” Lord Tarley begins. “I had heard of your skill during your time serving in Renly’s rainbow guard. It is an honor to witness.” 

“The honor is mine, my Lord.” she answers. “It has been some time since I have had the opportunity to fight such a skillful opponent.” 

“How then was my Lord and King murdered?” he bites. 

Her jaw sets and she extends to her full height. But Lord Tarly is not one to back down, even when looking her in the eye. “I grow weary of these accusations,” she answers, sheathing Oathkeeper. “As I have said many times to many people, Renly was killed by smoke and shadow. Evil conjured by Stannis Baratheon and his Red Witch.” 

“Smoke and Shadow,” Lord Tarly sneers. “Magic and Fairytales. I believe none of it. The simplest explanation is that you killed him. Likely jealous of Her Grace Queen Margaery. Sword or no a wench is still a wench.” 

Brienne breathes deep and looks off toward the high walls surrounding them, and then smiles. 

“How is your son? The elder one,” she quickly clarifies. “Do you know if he will be marching south with the rest of Queen Shireen’s retinue? I hear he is serving as her Maester, with a new babe on the way. I wonder if his Wildling wife will be making the journey with them? Are you excited to be a grandfather? I hear it is a joy that compares to nothing else.” 

Lord Tarly’s scowl deepens and his lip quivers with rage. 

“May the gods bless your family with many more,” she adds, offering a slight bow before turning away toward the barracks. Podrick should be done with his morning duties by now and training with the other squires. 

It brings her joy to see how he has improved. Pride swells her chest with each of his victories in the informal tournaments. He will be a good knight some day.

Provided there is someone left to knight him. 

Another Dothraki cry rings out, this one loud and alarming. His words mean nothing to her, but she knows their meaning by their tone and urgency. Copper skinned men rush to the stables. Strapping their strange curved swords to their belts. Hoofs clatter on the cobblestones as they bolt through the gates. 

Something has happened.

Picking up her pace, she climbs the nearest tower and gasps as she looks out over the ramparts. The Dothraki horde gathers in the field, forming blocks in preparation for a charge. Behind them Unsullied gather in organized columns, their pikes standing tall and upright. 

And a horn blows, no. Not a single horn. Dozens of horns. A noisy trumpeting, _animal_ call she has never heard before. 

Fire spits in the clouds. An orange light plummeting toward the earth. Dragonfire swooping in a long line over an unseen enemy. 

“My Lady,” Podrick fumbles up to her breathless, “What are the Queen’s commands?” 

She swallows hard, remembering that she is the commander here. That it is her duty to lead the Queen's men. 

“Have Yohn Royce prepare the men. I must see to the Queen.” 

“Yes, My Lady.” 

The Queens are gathered on a balcony above the Great Hall. Tyrion shouts at Sansa as she stares off at the horizon. At the Dragons spinning and spitting fire in the distance. At the great calvary charge of a Dothraki Horde. 

“How could your scouts miss that she was sending the entire Golden Company?” the dwarf cries. “How do you not see fifty thousand men and elephants!?” 

Sansa does not answer, her mouth hanging open and wide-eyed as Brienne circles to face her. 

“Your Grace, our men are mustering as we speak,” she announces, placing her hand to her sternum in a bow. “We await your command.” 

“Sansa, my dear,” Littlefinger leans to whisper in the Queen's ear. “Perhaps it would be best to choose caution. You never know what kind of opportunities might arise.” 

“Opportunities!” Tyrion screeches. “Sansa, please. You must send your armies out at once. If you do not, they will die.” 

“Two of your enemies will wipe each other out. Two dangerous opponents. Cersei would be vulnerable and this foreign invasion will be over. Who else will Margaery ally with but you against Cersei? Where else will your wayward brother turn for his war against the threat?”

“Sansa. I beg you” Tyrion gets down on his knees in front of his former wife. “Think of your father, Eddard Stark would not allow a guest of his house to die by an enemy's hand.” 

“Your father was murdered because he was so bound by his honor that he failed to take advantage of the situations offered to him.” 

There was another moment, before another battle. When a small army stood against a larger one with little chance of success. With one leader charging headlong into death. Brienne remembers watching from the hillside as men died by the thousands. She remembers watching Sansa’s face, placid and pale as she counted the sigils painted on shields. As the bloody battle grew more and more desperate. As her allies, the Northerns and Wildlings fighting for her home became surrounded. 

She remembers the heavy sigh, and the quiet murmur of ‘ _right on time_ ’ as over a hill Bronze Yohn Royce appeared at the head of the cavalry. As armed and armored knights stormed and rescued the beleaguered Wildlings and Northmen. 

She remembers the look of despair on Jon Snow’s face. The anger and the agony plain through the blood staining his skin. When he realized he was a pawn to be sacrificed for the great game. That it didn’t matter if he lived or died. 

“My Queen,” she says, with every ounce of authority she can gather. Silencing the arguing men and forcing Sansa to turn and look at her as she kneels. Brienne unsheathes Oathkeeper and lays it across her knee. “When I offered you my sword, I swore an oath to shield your back, and keep your council and give my life for yours.” Lifting her head up to meet the icy gaze of the Queen. “And you in turn swore that you would never ask a service of me that would bring me dishonor. Do not break faith with me now by asking me to order my men to sheathe their swords.” 

“I--” Sansa opens her mouth, her breath catching in her throat. Glancing between Tyrion and Littlefinger. “I--” 

A new horn rings out. Bright and loud and clear. And breaking through the treeline to the North, banners appear. The flaming heart of Shireen Baratheon. Mammoths and Giants. Wildlings and Witches. The Old Gods and the Eternal Fire. And at its head a black rider, and a white wolf. 

Sansa hangs her head. A veil of shame coming to drape over her stony features. A heavy sigh deflating her shoulders as she issues her command. 

“Keep your oath, Brienne of Tarth.”

**Author's Note:**

> I offer no apologies. It's a pandemic. The Worlds in Chaos. I don't remember what linear time feels like. Sometimes you can't write fic and you just have to play the Witcher again. Or you get really caught up in your DnD campaign and you can't think about making fictional characters kiss because you are making your PC kiss. And sometimes, you forget that this is a satisfying hobby, even though it drives you crazy. 
> 
> And so yes, I started a new multi-fic instead of finishing any of my others. Whattttttttttttaboutttit? Is starting massive projects and not finishing them a character flaw? Perhaps. Is that the self-work I am going to focus on when I am so deeply flawed in so many other ways? - Absolutely not. I go where my heart leads. And my heart looked at all my other fics and said... No... Lets write a big medieval battle with Dragons. And so... this happened. Again. I offer no apologies. 
> 
> If you liked it, please leave a comment. If you didn't... Why did you keep reading? Like this was forty pages long and nearly 17k. Why would you do that to yourself? Do you have a persecution complex?Most podcasts have discount codes for those like internet app counselors. Please seek help. You're in my prayers. 
> 
> And finally your secret Password is: GLASS_SHARK. You know what to do.


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